


You've Got My Back in the City

by thought



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 19:05:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Circumstances change. Sometimes the same choice isn't the right one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You've Got My Back in the City

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, so today in 'things I was not expecting to do tonight'. Um, have a surprise 3700 words of Wash feels! Title (C) Of Montreal.  
> Warnings for discussion and implications of suicidal behavior, as well as descriptions of violence and briefly described death of a child.

1.

A

"I'm not doing this," Wash says.

Behind him the arrhythmic clanking of Connie putting on her armour stops, but he doesn't turn, keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead on the locker where nobody's bothered to take down Georgia’s name plate. They won't tell him what happened to Georgia, but at least there's only one name plate now. Five minutes ago, when he'd glanced over in the middle of pulling on a glove, there'd been two.

"Wash?" Connie comes closer, boots clomping like jackhammers. He washed the blood out of his hair last night --easy to tell yourself head wounds bleed a lot until it's your own blood dripping past your fingers, making everything sticky and leaving crusty stains on the inside of your helmet.

"I've got a concussion," he says, carefully. They're the only people in the locker-room. They're already late. He wonders if this will be a pattern, if they will always be bringing each other down.

"The doctor said it wasn't that bad," Connie says, but she's careful, too, like he's already proved himself worthy of condescension, of kid gloves. The doctor hadn't said anything, actually, just showed his results to the Director and he's trying, he really is, but 'do better next time' is a hard proscription to fill.

"I'll fuck it up," says Wash. "I'm still seeing double. I'm dizzy." It'd be easier if it was broken ribs-- Wash can fight through all kinds of pain, knows survival like he knows the metal sharp of blood on the back of his tongue. But this is perception, is people relying on him to know what's going on. Survival means fighting even when there's not enough blood or two many drugs or sleep still clouding your thoughts, but the army taught him about reliance and strategies and the ways that survival becomes interdependence, how this isn't a bad thing.

"Are you gonna throw up?"

Wash keeps staring at Georgia’s name, the strip of metal scratched and dented like it's seen its own wars. "Probably. But I'm ok right now."

Connie puts a hand on his shoulder, steady and cool. Her hands are always cold. Poor circulation, maybe. "I'll tell Carolina."

"Sorry," he says, because he didn't join this team to be the squeaky wheel.

She rubs his shoulder a bit, awkward little movements jerky enough that they're more unpleasant than soothing. "It's ok. It's not your fault."

Wash thinks it is, but nobody will tell him what happened to Georgia.

B

"I'm not doing this," Wash says as soon as the shadow falls over him. He's been waiting for this.

"Your other options being?"

He does look up, then, because he was expecting Carolina and instead it's Tucker standing over him, sun glancing off his armour and reflecting stinging flashes against Wash's eyeballs. He brings up a hand, let's it fall before it reaches his face. "Go away, Tucker."

"Is that any way to talk to the guy who's protecting your ass from sunstroke?"

"That was an order, Private."

Tucker laughs aloud, taking a few steps closer so he's blocking out the sun entirely. "Dude, it's been like three months. When has that ever worked?"

"I live in hope," Wash says flatly.

Tucker shakes his head. "You know what they say about people who keep doing the same thing and expect a different result."

Wash winces. "I'm not crazy."

He doesn't realize it's come out a snarl until Tucker's actually crouching down across from him, getting on his level and popping open his helmet so he can meet Wash's eyes. "So as much as this sulky teenager impression has been hilarious for the past two days, Carolina's starting to look a liiiittle murderous. Well, more murderous than she already did, I mean. Murder Plus."

"Two days?" Wash asks, and then hurriedly, "Tell her I'm not going. Tell her to just fucking go if she's so goddamn desperate to find it."

"Him," Tucker says, sharply. "And yes, two days, Wash. Don't you have a chronometer? You do know how to use that armour, right?"

"Shut up, Tucker." It's automatic by now. He wonders how often he's been losing time and not noticing.

"She's not leaving without you," Tucker says after a minute.

"Then she's not leaving," Wash says, and tries not to notice that idea, shoves it away like the last glimpse of a ragged safety blanket ready for the trash.

"You were eager enough to get Epsilon before this," Tucker says, bitterness and distrust sediment under the consciously casual tone.

"Circumstances change."

"So you don't think he's a good enough get out of jail free card anymore."

Wash laughs a bit, unexpected and jagged. "You think he was going to get me freedom?" Wash does not know what he means when he says 'freedom', but Tucker probably has an idea, so the question stands.

"So you're suicidal or your martyr complex got way out of hand. Which is it?"

Wash flinches back, then leans forward, angry. "You think you have any fucking idea what you're talking about, Private Tucker?"

"No," he shoots back. "About your situation, Wash? No, you've got 'strong and silent' coming off of you in waves even if you are shitty at it. But if you aren't gonna explain then I'm just gonna keep throwing out guesses until I hit something."

"Because you care that much?"

"Because I want to get Church back, you self-obsessed dick, and we can't do that until you get off your ass."

Wash's hands are shaking and when he licks his lips they're cracked and dry. "Epsilon isn't Church, Tucker. You're chasing memories, you and Carolina both. Learn to let go."

"You first," Tucker says, a little meanly. "You went crazy when they stuck Epsilon in your head, right? That's why you don't want to get him back?"

"Sure," says Wash. "Let's go with that."

"Then maybe you need to let go, too."

Wash does not know how to explain just how fucking impossible Tucker's suggestion is in practice. Like he hasn't been trying for years, like he wouldn't give just about anything, do whatever it took, to excise Epsilon from his head, from his memories and blood and the electric sparks passing from synapse to synapse, always two memories, two voices screaming against the back of his teeth.

Tucker stands up, turns away. "I thought you were part of the team," he says. "I guess I was wrong."

Wash wonders how often that line has worked on other people, wonders if it's Tucker's first time. Wash knows how to survive, and it's nice to see he's not the only one. He gets up, muscles protesting and head swimming, and follows Tucker.

2

A

"Wash, get up."

He rolls over, pulls the blankets higher over his head until just the top of his forehead is poking out, the skin familiarly numb under the steady gust of the vent that's inconveniently placed right above his bed. Other than that he's finally fucking warm under the scratchy blanket, knees drawn up into the indentation of his body in the thin mattress, feet pressed together and a bit clammy. Connie pokes him again.

"Waaaash, you're going to miss breakfast."

"I'll bite your fingers off," he says into the pillow.

She keeps jabbing him. He kind of regrets the open door policy their squad has adopted over the past few months. Connie's kneeling beside the bed, where she's been for the last five minutes, ever since Maine left their room on his own. Secretly Wash kind of likes the idea that he's one half of Maine and Wash, that they've achieved York and Carolina levels of ubiquitous. He also likes that Connie cares enough to come in to wake him up, even if it means she's probably missing her own chance at breakfast. That being said, he still doesn't want to get up. His night had been filled with weird, disjointed dreams almost abstract enough that he couldn't call them nightmares, the kind that leave you lying awake for long minutes afterward, perfectly still and trying to separate out reality from dream. His limbs feel impossibly heavy, and every time he's jerked back into consciousness by a loud noise or a finger poking him in the ribs he's hit with violent shivers, uncontrollable for a few seconds until he's pressed himself as deep into the blankets as he can go. He is absolutely certain that if he gets up he will fall right back down again.

"You know you're going to get up eventually," Connie says, sing-song.

"Nuh uh," he lies. Of course he's going to get up, he's a fucking professional, he's dealt with things far worse than a poor night's sleep and done so with far more grace. It's just an eventuality he's been trying not to think about.

Groaning, he prepares himself to at least pull down the blanket.

Connie, apparently bored of the conversation, reaches around his chest and stomach and rolls him onto the floor.

"Mother fucker," he says, clearly and deliberately, staring up at her. His elbow aches. Connie yanks the blanket away, in case Wash was under the impression that he had any dignity remaining.

"I'll go get us some breakfast and bring it back," she says. "Do not fall asleep on the goddamn floor."

Wash mock salutes and flips her off in the same motion.

"Gotta keep moving," she says, and for a moment she looks as exhausted as he feels, that bone-deep exhaustion that goes beyond the physical, that thrives on monotony and no end in sight, second verse, same as the first, and third and fourth and fifth, too. It's gone as quickly as it appears, and she tosses a jaunty wave over her shoulder as she exits the room.

B

"Wash, get up."

Wash doesn't move, doesn't know if he can move, doesn't know if he's ever going to move again. It seems like a task so insurmountable as to be out of the realm of possibility, and he thinks he's already done enough seemingly insurmountable tasks for one lifetime.

"Dude, Caboose blew up the toaster."

She couldn't cook, let the kettle boil until it was smoking and threatened a pot-roast with a shotgun. He was a scientist, so he ordered in for dinner but at least there were always perfectly baked cakes and pastries and breads when neither of them could remember to bother ordering in.

No. Wash knows the basics of cooking. Wash has never baked a cake in his life. Ordering in means you have an address, or it means you've got extra money, or-- she said they'd send their daughter to cooking lessons.

"Uh, Wash? I'm not kidding, I hope you never want another piece of toast. Like, hypothetical toast. Rescue toast, right? Because whoever comes to rescue us will obviously be hauling around a loaf of bread for our toaster. Seriously, Wash, I know you're not dead, I can see you breathing."

Wash remembers the way it felt when he realized nobody was coming to rescue him. Remembers the way it felt when he realized he needed to be rescued. They tortured him. They tore him apart-- that’s wrong, too. It was addition, not subtraction. Wash, at least, still has all his pieces, shattered and twisted as they may be. The blanket over him is scratchy, pulled up almost over his whole head. He remembers feeling numb when he heard the news. She's dead. She's dead. She's dead.

"Washington!"

Nobody aims a laser at him this time, but he flinches anyway, and it feels like he's jarred something loose that should have stayed in place. There's a hand on his shoulder. Her hands were always cold-- there's a callus from her gun on the-- tiny fingers, "I'll bite your fingers off" -- she holds a finger out for the baby to grab onto with one tiny hand--

"You're starting to freak me out, Wash. You moved, I saw you. Are you in a coma? Please don’t' be in a coma."

The hand tightens on his arm, tugging at him and the blanket has disappeared, his body is moving and it's easier to go along with it than to resist. Let her pin his wrists above his head, smirking down at him like it's a sure thing, like he's a sure thing. Some victories, at least, should come easy for her.

"Can you just, like, open your eyes, buddy? Or squeeze my hand. Once for 'I'm not infected with a fatal alien disease'."

Fingers brush his face, drag across the fragile skin just below his eyes. His body reacts before his head and he's blinked his eyes open. There's ceiling above him, then a face, and it's like being forced out of a warm house into winter snow.

"You asshole," Tucker says. "Tell me you're not dying."

Wash thinks about closing his eyes again, but the murky waters of his unconscious are unsettled, tossing him towards the shore and scraping his legs on the sand.

"I'm not dying," he says obediently.

"Oh good," says Tucker, but he doesn't sound relieved like he should. Wash thinks maybe he's not. Maybe it's a disappointment. Maybe he's projecting a bit, but Christ, the thought of dealing with the day-to-day reality of life in the canyon seems fucking unbearable.

"Are you ok?" Tucker asks, a little exasperated, a little something else that Wash doesn't want to examine too closely.

"No," he says, because he doesn't have the energy to lie and it's amazing how often he doesn’t get asked that exact question, thinks maybe he's truthful because he hasn't had the chance to get used to lying.

"You wanna talk about it?"

"No," he says again.

Tucker sits down beside the bed, stretching his legs out on the floor in front of him and leaning his shoulder against the side of the mattress. "You gonna get up?"

Wash thinks about it, thinks about the enormity of lifting an arm, a leg, his whole body. "Not yet."

Tucker settles himself like a dog making itself comfortable on a new bed. "Yeah, ok. That's cool."

Tucker doesn't leave.

3

A

"Don't touch me!"

CT's crouched down beside him on the floor of the Pelican, hands open like she's trying to tame something wild. Wash knows he's losing a lot of blood, knows the hole in his thigh is still at the point where it’s an easy fix if he lets someone patch it up long enough to get back to Medical on the Mother of Invention. He can feel the steady throbbing, the way his under-armour sticks too his skin with blood. Thinks he should not be going into shock, he's a better soldier than this.

He also knows that if anyone comes near him he's going to fall apart, going to fucking tear them to pieces, lash out with whatever he's got left because it's more than the kid they left down there on the planet, off to the side of the street, body bent in ways it shouldn't be and skin shredded to match the gravel and the asphalt. It was supposed to be a quick job, in and out, no casualties. Definitely no civilian casualties, and has Freelancer made him soft, he wonders, because he knows what non-combatants look like when they're dead, knows how to clear a goddamn city of enemy threats and not look too hard at the bodies he's passing. But with every pulse of red under his hands he hears the screech of tires, the blast of gunfire when he looks away; feels that second of heart-stopping panic when he sees the car coming straight at him, the way it blooms out into his entire body when he sees the kid, obviously confused and panicking, and realizes that he doesn't have time to save them both. The way his body went hot then cold inside his armour as he jumped out of the way, the shock of a gunshot to his thigh while he stares helplessly as the car careens into the tiny body, tossing it fifteen feet to land in a ditch.

He doesn't remember a lot after that, but he is here, on his ass on the floor of the Pelican with CT trying to get close enough to stop the blood that keeps leaking out no matter how much he tries to hold it inside.

"Please don't," he says, and his teeth are chattering in his helmet. He wonders if she can hear.

"Ok," she says, still soft, still trying to calm him down. "Ok, Wash. It's ok. I won't, I promise. Can you put the Biofoam on your leg if I toss it over?"

She's talking to him like he's that kid, like he needs to be fucking coddled when he just fucking watched a child die because of a fight that he was part of initiating. "I'm not--" he bites out, but doesn't know how to finish the sentence. He wonders if the others are near by, or if they sent the two of them back ahead, if Wash is responsible for taking CT out of the fight as well as himself.

"Ok," she says, like a broken record. He feels sick, sudden and clutching at his insides, throat ceasing up and mouth and eyes watering. He is not going to throw up in his helmet. He is not. He sucks in gasps of recycled air, choking on it and coughing and curling his free arm around his stomach as his body jerks.

It feels like it goes on forever, but once he's fought back his body's instinctive reaction he looks up through wet eyes and CT hasn't moved any closer, is still crouched there waiting patiently. Slowly, he loosens his arm, drops his hand to the deck plating and nods jerkily.

"Yeah, I can put the Biofoam on. I-- are we going back up?"

She rolls a canester across the floor to bump up against his knee. "Yeah. Wyoming took North to check the secondary lab, but he says there's nothing there. They'll be back soon."

"Ok," he says, hands fumbling with the seals on the canester. She doesn't offer to help. He is unspeakably grateful.

B

"Don't touch me!"

Tucker takes a few quick steps back, hands up. "Jesus, sorry."

Wash rubs roughly at his eyes, trying to clear the sleep and dried tears away. His neck reminds him viciously that he's getting too old to fall asleep sitting up, especially on the incredibly shitty couch that makes up the entirety of the Blues rec room. Everything is quiet. It's late enough that Caboose must already be asleep. Once he gets a look at tucker he revises his estimate -- late enough that they were both asleep. Tucker's in sleep pants and an old t-shirt, obviously hastily tugged on if the tag sticking out between his clavicles is any indication.

"Go back to bed," Wash says. His throat is raw, and he can taste blood from where he's bitten his tongue. He’d like to say the nightmares aren't usually this bad, but they are, sometimes worse, and the only relief is that with quantity comes a decrease in diversity. He never remembers them clearly, but he doesn't have to, knows they're all the same mix of his own memories and Epsilon’s, sometimes a mutant patchwork formed from bits of both of them. Always fucking horrific. Always going to leave him screaming his vulnerabilities for anyone in the vicinity to hear. It'd be kinder if they just ignored the whole thing, pretended like he never woke them up with his screaming. He assumes it's screaming.

"You should," says Tucker. "I mean, go to bed. Too. That couch is a fucking death trap."

"Yeah," says Wash. "Sure." He draws his shoulders down, tucks his arms around himself, flexes his toes against the floor. Tucker lingers in the doorway, Wash can see the slight movement of his shadow in his peripheral vision. The room is hot but Wash shivers anyway, forces himself to breathe evenly as he waits for the adrenalin crash.

"Yeah fuck this," Tucker snaps under his breath, and he's across the room in a few quick strides, hopping over the back of the couch and sliding in behind Wash, wrapping is arms around him like an overly-affectionate octopus. Wash freezes. Tucker digs his chin into Wash's shoulder, pressing his chest against his back, only thin cotton separating them. Tucker's body is warm, radiating heat like leaning up against a vehicle just after it's parked.

"Tucker," Wash says, evenly. "What are you doing?"

"Hugging you," he says. "We're not calling it cuddling, for the record."

"...Why?"

Tucker adjusts his arms so he can tuck his fingers around the outside of Wash's wrists. "Because you wake up every fucking night screaming like someone's tearing you apart and keeping you alive to feel it, and every fucking night I decide to come wake you up it's like nothing happened, like I just dropped in to mention that you forgot to do the dishes. And I can't keep walking away."

"So you decided strangling me is a better choice."

Wash can practically sense Tucker's eyeroll. "Oh shut up, I'm nowhere near your neck. Physical contact is good for you, there's a brain chemical and everything."

"...Really."

Tucker lifts his chin. "If you actually really need me to get off, I will. Like, I don't want to make you have a panic attack or something. I just thought-- I dunno. Caboose said you probably just need a hug, and I mean, obviously who's gonna listen to Caboose, right, and I'm sure you need, like, therapy and medication and whoa, ok, or not," Wash consciously tries to release the tension in his shoulders even as Tucker rubs circles on the insides of his wrists. "Anyway. You've got to start somewhere, you know? And obviously just ignoring the problem isn't working."

"So cuddling," says Wash, still somewhere between irritated and bemused, but finding his body relaxing against his will.

"Hugging," Tucker corrects. "Like, manly hugging. Without the backslapping."

"...Cuddling," Wash says again, smirking a bit. Tucker sighs dramatically, and shoves at Wash until he can slide a leg around behind him so that Wash is settled more securely with his back to Tucker's chest.

"Shut up and enjoy the hugging," tucker mutters. And it takes a while, but eventually Wash does.


End file.
